Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
When my life and the lives of those I’d served with had depended on my judgment, I’d learned to make decisions carefully, based on evidence and logical deduction if possible.
Had a sizable French force passed through a valley three days ago, or had the tracks, ruts, and boot prints been left by bandits hostile to the French?
Would a stream be low enough in a week’s time to allow artillery to safely ford, or would a longer route be necessary? Where could our snipers provide covering fire for such an operation? Where might the enemy lie in wait?
In making the decision to detour to Town, I relied solely on instinct, which was no end of discomfiting.
“Everybody will be singin’ carols,” my tiger, Atticus, observed.
He was small, dark-haired, and exhibited an odd combination of outspokenness and tact.
“The shops will be a-bustlin’ and every door will have a wreath or a bit of ribbon on the knocker.
The whole of London will smell of gingerbread early in the day and pine in the afternoon. ”
Ah, youth.
Atticus’s benevolent view of Christmas was at variance with his usually jaundiced perspective on human nature.
His earliest memories were of a parish poorhouse, from whence he’d been whisked into domestic service at a tender age, separating him from a brother I had yet to locate.
I’d come upon Atticus at a house party in Kent, discerned that he was both shrewd and loyal beyond his tender years, and offered him a post.
What that post entailed was a matter of ongoing negotiation.
I agitated for book learning and further domestic accomplishments, but Atticus loved the stable and the company of the grooms and gardeners.
I tolerated his preferences for the nonce, because more than once, the information Atticus had gathered in low places had proved critical to solving an investigation.
Then too, better to be a happy stable boy than a miserable clerk, provided that stable boy was literate and could cipher accurately.
“You recall the holidays in London fondly?” I asked as the coach slowed for yet another turnpike.
“When I was on the parish, we sometimes got a peppermint stick at the Yuletide if we was good. Tom didn’t care for peppermint, so he gave me his, and I gave him my cinnamon biscuits.”
Atticus’s speech was a fair barometer of his mood. When he was excited, whether by fear or joy, his syntax suffered. When calm and focused, his humble origins were less in evidence.
“You like cinnamon biscuits, young man.” Atticus, who had known long periods of short rations, liked food in the general case. His age was estimated to be nine or tenish, but he could have been younger or older. Short rations made for a short boy.
“Fair’s fair,” Atticus said, his bootheel swinging against the bench. “I like peppermint sticks too. I could walk faster than this coach is moving.”
“Good idea.” I thumped on the coach roof with my walking stick. “Let’s do a bit of sightseeing, shall we?”
We’d been cooped up for hours, leaving the coach only for moments here and there to stretch our legs when a fresh team was put to. Experienced hostlers could swap out horses in less than a minute, and John Coachman knew better than to linger in the innyard when we had winter roads to negotiate.
The coach halted, and Atticus was out the door like a first-form scholar granted summer parole.
I donned my blue spectacles before debarking in deference to eyes that took painful exception to bright sunshine.
We’d made it as far as Knightsbridge. The mile or so walk to the ducal town house would quell Atticus’s natural restlessness.
And perhaps quiet my mental agitation as well. I had not sent word ahead to Hyperia that I would be in Town. The note might well have arrived after I did, and—shameful admission—I wanted the option to change my mind crossroad by crossroad.
“See?” Atticus said, pointing rudely to the nearest shop door. “Wreaths and pine ropes and red ribbons everywhere.”
I saw two wreaths. “The town house is that way,” I said, nodding to the northeast. “Mind you don’t get lost.”
He scowled at the sky. “How can you tell which way is which when there’s no sun?”
In our various adventures, I’d taught him a bit of tracking and a few other skills.
“You often can’t. A heavily overcast day is frustrating if the sun is your only point of reference.
If you’re a native to London, you know the wind comes mostly from the southwest in every season except spring. Which direction is southwest?”
He stared at the brick walkway for a moment. “That way.” This time, he used his chin. “Hampshire is southwest of Town.”
My boy was a born map reader. “Correct. Now tell me about the wind.”
He stuck a finger in his mouth and held his damp digit aloft. “Can’t tell you nothin’. It’s all just cold air.”
I moved off along a street that would take us as far as Hyde Park. “Look at the buildings, Atticus. Look up high and down low. Inspect the horizon in a complete three-hundred-sixty-degree circle.”
Moving felt good. Reminding Atticus of previous lessons did too. London itself, though, had long since ceased to have any attraction for me. Harry had loved the sheer activity in such varied and sprawling surrounds, while I preferred the peace of the countryside.
“Flagpole!” Atticus said, spinning in a circle. “Atop that bankish-looking place. If that flag is flapping northeast, we’re moving mostly north.”
“Correct.” I resisted the urge to tousle his hair. “Where is your hat?”
“Left it in the coach.”
Along with his mittens and scarf, which was a reflection on my mental preoccupation. We stopped at Gunter’s for hot chocolate and rum buns, strictly to prevent the boy from taking a chill, of course.
I was debating whether to offer Atticus the half of my bun I was disinclined to eat when I caught sight of a woman sitting in a town coach across the street. She was in great good spirits and laughing with more enthusiasm than a lady usually showed in public.
An excursion to Gunter’s, especially for the genteel distaff, was often completed without leaving the conveyance that brought them. The ladies would remain comfy and cozy in a carriage, while a footman procured the comestibles.
Passing swains would visit with the damsels through the coach windows, or—in fine weather—by lounging beside open vehicles, seeing and being seen as they paid court to the fairer sex.
The laughing lady was Hyperia, and I did not recognize the gentleman who’d inspired her mirth. All I knew was that she did not laugh like that in my company, and I disliked that other fellow immediately and intensely.
Atticus paused in the inhalation of his rum bun. “You going all forgetty on me, guv? You got the look.”
From time to time, my memory deserted me completely, though temporarily. “Do not be impertinent.” Atticus was, in fact, worried. He’d nannied me through several of my lapses, which had to be nearly as unnerving for him as they were for me. “If you are through, let’s be off, shall we?”
He drained the last drop of chocolate from his mug. “You dint finish your bun.”
I passed over the uneaten portion, wasted food being a mortal sin, a hanging felony, and perilous stupid, according to the Code Atticus.
“Wrap it in your handkerchief,” I said, “assuming that article is clean.”
He complied, though where he stashed his plunder, I did not know. We were soon out on the busy street, the famed Berkeley Square maples winter-bare on the rectangular patch of dead grass across from us.
My intended was still smiling at the idiot making sheep’s eyes at her through the coach window.
“That’s Miss Hyperia!” Atticus said, raising an arm. “Miss West! Miss West! It’s us! The guv’nor’s come to Town!”
I could have throttled the boy. Instead, I slapped a cordial smile on my mug, tipped my hat, and started across the street.
“Julian!” Hyperia called. “Oh, Julian, what a delight!” She extricated herself from the coach and was soon standing on the walkway, her hand in mine.
“What a pleasure to see you, my lord. Atticus, you grow taller every time we meet. Henry, stop looking politely bewildered. You know I am great friends with Lord Julian.”
We were great friends engaged to be married, in point of fact.
Upon closer inspection, I did know the fellow. “Duquette, good day. A pleasure.”
“Caldicott, likewise, and as Miss West said, a surprise.” His tone was cordial, while his gaze held a sneering hint of masculine challenge.
He had not served in uniform, but his younger brother had, and thus Duquette had doubtless been privy to the military gossip. Then too, Duquette and Harry had been casual carousing partners, about which the less I knew, the better.
“I’m in Town to do last-minute holiday shopping,” I said, “as well as some fetching and carrying on behalf of His Grace, who remains on extended travel. Miss West, you are looking splendid.”
Hyperia was in fabulous form. She tended to hide her light—all of her lights—under plain attire, modest manners, and ladylike deportment.
She was brown-haired and several inches shorter than fashion preferred, also rounder and far more intelligent.
My intended did not indulge in clever gossip or witty barbs.
She missed nothing, despite her demure trappings, and had instincts regarding human behavior that amazed and occasionally baffled mere mortals like myself.
“Thank you,” she said, beaming at me. “Julian, you must let me give you a lift home. Atticus, up onto the bench with you. Henry, my regards to your dear mama.”
Duquette accepted his congé with good grace, bowing over Hyperia’s hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine, and thank you for the suggestion. A puppy would be the perfect gift for the perfect sister. Caroline does love the beasts, and no company is as comforting as that of a simple, loyal hound.”